


A Sad and Distant Land

by Zimra



Series: Ai Atalantë [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anárion's oldest daughter recalls the Fall of Númenor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sad and Distant Land

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics are from Stephen Hatfield's choral piece "Family Tree."

The room was dim, lit only by a sputtering stub of candle on the small table beside her. Outside, a breeze occasionally rattled the wooden shutters of the room’s two windows. In the semi-darkness Glorithil sat in a hard-backed chair, rocking her daughter’s cradle gently with one bare foot. An old shawl was draped loosely across her narrow shoulders, and her thick brown hair was clumsily braided into a single plait. Gazing absently at the cradle, she began to sing softly. 

“My rose, my darling, whenever you be  
Within the bower of my arms…”

Weary though she was, the young mother had been almost grateful to hear Meril crying in the middle of the night. She was physically exhausted, but her mind had simply refused to let her sleep. Caring for her daughter was a welcome distraction and a valid excuse for the dark circles under her eyes. 

Glorithil was no great singer, but she had learned that the baby responded well to the sound of her voice. Softly, the key of the song drifting slightly, she sang on.

“Now one is a maiden from a sad and distant land,  
And two is the star upon her brow,  
And three is the cruel sea rocking her awake  
In search of the land where you are growing now…”

It was part of a song telling of the flight from Númenor, the words of an anonymous poet set to music by a well-known local bard. The style was unusual, almost like that of a children’s rhyme, relatively short and simply written. The poem mentioned no names, yet it managed to convey the events and emotions of the flight with unbelievable clarity, and often referred to specific people by recognizable characteristics. It moved anyone who had been involved to tears or silence, though no one was sure where the text had originated. This particular verse had always been mystifying to Glorithil, since it was so obviously about her. Whoever had written it must have been there, and nearby, to know in such clear, simple terms what she and others had felt on that day and the long journey that followed. 

Leaning her head back, Glorithil closed her eyes and allowed the rhythm of the song to lull her into a stupor. The sound of the cradle worked its way into her mind, settling into a pattern of dull creaking, a crashing of waves and a pounding of feet on the wooden deck. The floor seemed to tilt and roll, a familiar feeling from her early childhood and beyond, though she hadn’t set foot on a ship since the voyage from Númenor. She’d been young and terrified then, uneasy even before she knew how much worse things would become. Images appeared in her mind, and she let herself drift away into visions of dark clouds and pale, tense faces, wooden decks and the gently menacing rocking of the waves.

~

From her perch on a crate at the stern, Glorithil stared at the dark shore in the distance. Annawen stood in front of her, fidgeting as her older sister ran a brush through her long, golden-brown hair. The eight-year-old yelped when Glorithil, whose mind was elsewhere, yanked on an unexpected tangle. 

“Sorry,” Glorithil said, tearing herself away from the view. She paused in her brushing for a moment a took a deep breath, waiting for her hands to stop trembling. Irrational though it was, she feared that if she looked away for too long the island would disappear, and if she looked back suddenly she would see only the bleak, empty sea behind them. The thick storm clouds that obscured the late morning sun already made it difficult to distinguish land from sky. But such speculation was ridiculous. None of the ships had moved since dropping anchor a safe distance from the coast, and they would not do so until her grandfather gave the order. 

She reached up and absent-mindedly fiddled with the band that rested upon her head, drawing her hand back quickly as soon as she realized what she was doing. The delicate mithril circlet with its blazing white gem was surprisingly heavy and uncomfortable, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it off. The Crown of Silmarien it was called, made many years ago for Glorithil’s great foremother, and by right it belonged to the oldest daughter of the Lord of Andúnië. But there had not been a girl born to one since Lord Eärendur’s sister, so the Crown had passed to Numendil’s wife and then to Glorithil’s grandmother. 

It had never even occurred to Glorithil that she would be the next one to receive it, but only a few weeks after her return from Armenelos, her grandfather had called her to him. “Glorithil,” Elendil had said, with his deep voice and his kind smile and his terribly sad eyes, “this belongs to you.”

She had blinked at him, not sure what to say. “Won’t Aunt Saríncë mind?” Now that Illisailë was gone, the Crown should rightly have passed to Isildur’s wife.

“I’ve already asked Saríncë, and she agrees with me. Your grandmother would have wanted you to have this. Our family and our people will face many hardships in the coming months; keep it safe for me, no matter what happens.” He had placed the circlet on her brow, then bent down from his great height to engulf her in a hug. “I am glad you’ve returned safely to us. So very glad.” His voice had caught in his throat, but when he had stepped back, she had seen no tears.

Now the sound of her mother’s voice made Glorithil look up, though she quickly realized that Sirilien was not speaking to her. Instead, the short, plain-faced woman addressed her nephew imploringly. 

“Elendur, I know your father allowed you to travel with us on the condition that you assist Anárion in any way possible. It appears your uncle is managing very well with Baranor’s help, but I’m afraid that if I have to carry both of these babies for much longer my arms will likely fall off. Could you hold Calerian for a while?” 

That got a chuckle out of Elendur, a welcome sound that Glorithil hadn’t heard in far too long. She waved to her cousin with her free hand, and he crossed the deck to stand beside her, baby in tow. 

“Where have you been all morning?” Glorithil asked, putting the brush down and beginning to braid Annawen’s hair. 

“Working,” her cousin replied, then went back to cooing at baby Calerian. Glorithil smiled at the sight of her tall, serious cousin in his soldier’s uniform happily letting her infant sister tug on his dark hair. “I was below helping Anárion, then he sent me up here to make sure you two weren’t getting into any trouble.”

When both girls glared at him in mock-annoyance, he just shrugged and said, “His words, not mine.” Annawen stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed again. Glorithil shook her head and smiled, feeling the painful knot of tension in her stomach loosen a little. It was just like her father to try and cheer everyone up at a time like this, but it had been years since she’d seen Elendur this relaxed. 

“You’re in an unusually good mood,” she remarked, tying off the end of Annawen’s braid. The younger girl immediately scampered off to peer over the edge of the ship. 

Elendur sat down beside Glorithil on the crate, rocking Calerian back and forth gently as the baby started drifting off to sleep. “I suppose so.” His expression had turned serious again. “I know I should be sad about leaving, but I feel freer, somehow. What would they have done to us if we’d stayed? The king just keeps getting madder, and the people more devoted to him, and after what happened to you and Grandmother...” He looked away. “I don’t want to see anyone in my family suffer like that ever again.”

Glorithil shivered, pulling her thick shawl more tightly around herself to ward off the cold sea winds and the memory of what had happened in Armenelos. “Do you think we’ll ever go back? Father told me that he’s to wait for orders from Grandfather before moving anywhere, but he wouldn’t answer when I asked him what he was waiting for.”

“I don’t know what Grandfather’s planning,” Elendur said, looking out across the sea at the distant coast, the hazy outline of the Meneltarma barely visible against the sky. “But if Ar-Pharazôn really leads an attack on Aman, the Valar will have to do something! They won’t be able to keep sitting idle while our island falls into ruin. If they destroy the king’s fleet and banish his sorcerer, maybe we’ll finally be able to live in Númenor without fearing for our lives. Maybe things will go back to the way they’re supposed to be.”

“Keep your voice down,” Glorithil murmured, glancing over at Annawen standing by the rail, and Sirilien talking to a few other women not far away.

“Sorry.” No one had told them outright what Ar-Pharazôn’s Great Armament was for, but all the soldiers knew, even the ones who, like Elendur, weren’t officially adults. But twenty was adult enough for most people these days, and even sixteen didn’t feel so young anymore.

“I don’t know, Elendur,” she said, reaching up and running her fingers over the crown again. “Somehow, I don’t think things will go back to they way they were. It’s just...a feeling I have.”

“You sound like my father,” he said bitterly. “I know nothing ever goes right for us, but just once I wish he wouldn’t act like happiness is impossible.”

The horrible tension returned to Glorithil’s stomach, and she prayed fervently that she would not be sick. She had spent far too much time on boats to be able to pass it off as seasickness, and she didn’t want anyone to know how scared she was. She wished Rindisil were here. Elendur’s best friend and fellow soldier usually knew how to cheer him up, and his mere presence was enough to make Glorithil feel like the whole world was a little brighter. But he was on one of Isildur’s ships, and Eru only knew how long it would be until they were all together again.

“None of us can be certain of anything,” she said, watching her cousin anxiously for his reaction. “If nothing else, we’re all together, and safe. Remember that.” _And hope it stays that way._

“Glorithil!” Annawen cried, sounding slightly panicked. “Elendur!”

“What’s wrong?” Glorithil called back, hurrying over to join her sister at the side of the ship. Elendur followed more slowly, trying not to jostle the sleeping Calerian too much.

The little girl pointed out at the sea, back towards Númenor. “The waves are getting bigger out there!” 

Leaning over the rail and squinting into the distance, Glorithil could see that Annawen was right. Behind them, the restless sea was working itself up into a frenzy, and farther on she could see waves rising suddenly with no obvious cause, crashing over the great cliffs of the eastern coast. 

“What’s happening?” Elendur asked when he reached them. “Glorithil, I don’t think I’ve ever seen waves that high.” 

The clouds began to scurry across the sky, darkening and solidifying into distinct shapes. Glorithil’s stomach turned; they were becoming eagles of the sort that had appeared often in the sky above Numenor in recent years, bringing terrible storms and lighting fires with them. 

" _Narîka ‘nBâri ‘nAdûn,_ ” she heard Elendur mutter from behind her. _The Eagles of the Lords of the West._

They watched the storm begin to rage over the island, lighting splitting the sky above the Meneltarma. It was still too far away to reach the ships, but other passengers had begun to notice, moved to the side of the ship to watch, speaking nervously to each other in low voices.

“What’s going on?” Annawen asked, leaning against her sister and clutching the fabric of her skirt. Glorithil put an arm around the younger girl’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know, darling.” Her voice shook slightly, sounding high-pitched and childish to her own ears. 

The waves crashing against the land were impossibly high now, and Glorithil found herself fervently praying that somehow the people on the coast had managed to get to high ground in time. Suddenly, someone screamed; fire had burst forth from the Meneltarma, the top of its great peak exploding in a shower of rocks that Glorithil knew were probably large enough to crush most of the city of Armenelos. 

And then came a wave which did not crash; it simply grew and grew until it covered the entire northern half of the island, then kept growing. She heard Elendur screaming something incoherent behind her, felt herself digging her fingers into Annawen’s shoulder so hard that her sister tried to twist free of her grip, and the wave came down over the land, swallowing up everything she had ever known in one great roar of water.

The sound of her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest almost drowned out the panicked screams of the people around her. She barely had time to exchange one look with Elendur, whose face was frozen with fear and disbelief, before the wind slammed into them.

The ship creaked as it careened forward, faster than any ship its size ought to move. Glorithil caught the edge of the rail in time to brace herself against the wind, but Annawen was wrenched from her grasp and thrown across the deck, vanishing from sight amid the avalanche of people and possessions.

“Annawen!” Glorithil screamed. Elendur, who had been blown back and now crouched behind one of the masts to escape the wind, started towards her, but Glorithil shook her head frantically. “Get below!” she shouted at him. “You have to keep Calerian safe! Get below and find my mother!”

Elendur looked down at the baby he clutched in his arms, then back at Glorithil. He nodded, white-faced, and did as she had ordered.

Glorithil picked her way through the wreckage, stumbling over debris as the wind battered her limbs. She could barely see Annawen, who was curled up beneath the remnants of a crate that had smashed against the railing. The younger girl raised her head slightly at the sound of her sister’s voice, and Glorithil nearly collapsed with relief.

“Stay right there!” she screamed over the wind. “I’m coming to get you!”

Annawen nodded, and wrapped her arms even more tightly around her head. When Glorithil finally reached her she fell to her knees beside her sister and shook her. 

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Annawen’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “We have to get somewhere safe.” They were instantly hit with a wall of freezing wind, even stronger than before. 

“We have to keep going, Annawen!” Glorithil cried, doubled over as she tried to keep her own body between her sister and the biting gale. “Hold on to me!” Annawen wrapped her arms around Glorithil’s waist and clung to her as the two of them made their painfully slow way across the chaos of the deck. They were almost halfway to their goal when it began to rain, icy, driving rain that soaked them to the skin in a matter of moments.

A strong gust of wind came up from behind her and knocked Glorithil off her feet. She fell hard on the deck, pulling Annawen with her, and the impact knocked the crown from her head. Annawen’s face was contorted with sobs now, but Glorithil could barely hear her cries over the roaring of the storm. Holding tightly to Annawen’s arm, she looked around and spotted the crown lying not far away, the jewel still gleaming star-like through the rain. 

She flung an arm out and clutched at the band, gripping the slippery metal as tightly as she could. As Glorithil struggled to stand without letting go of either the crown or her sister, someone gripped her upper arm and helped her to her feet. 

Beneath the hood of the dark cloak he wore she glimpsed her father’s face, grim and determined in a way that reminded her of her uncle. Anárion made sure both his daughters were steady on their feet, then flung his cloak around both of them and hurried them the rest of the way, half-carrying a stumbling Annawen. It was all Glorithil could do to keep up, but she hung on to the crown until her fingers ached and pressed on. 

Their father wrenched open the door that led down to the lower decks and ushered them inside, then threw back his hood and spoke urgently to them from just inside the threshold.

“Glorithil, take Annawen below. You’ll be safe, I promise. Don’t go anywhere until your mother or I comes for you. I’m going to make sure no one else is out there.” Pulling the hood back up, he strode out into the storm once more, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Glorithil took Annawen’s hand, ignoring the girl’s frightened whimpers as she pulled her along. They made their way carefully down the stairs into the black depths of the ship, stopping when they felt the deck stretch out before their feet again. Glorithil could hear the whispers and moans of the other passengers, and felt her way along the side of the hold until she found an empty space large enough for her to sink to her knees. 

Pressed up against the wall, she pulled her sister close to her and shut her eyes, letting the darkness wash over her like waves.

~

“Glorithil?”

She became aware that someone was touching her, soft fingers gently brushing her hair away from her face. She opened her eyes slowly, then shut them again; the room was brighter than she remembered. It was morning, and someone had opened the shutters to let in the sunlight. Peeking out from under one eyelid, she saw a face peering down at her. Calerian, the very picture of impatience, waved her hand in front of her older sister’s eyes.

“What is it?” Glorithil asked, sitting up. Dawn had broken a few hours ago, by the look of it. Had she really been asleep that whole time? Why hadn’t Meril woken her? She looked down and saw that the cradle was empty, and panic suddenly rose up inside her. “Where’s Meril?”

“It’s alright, she’s with Rindisil,” Calerian assured her, in that businesslike voice that made her sound so much older than fifteen. “The patrol returned early this morning, and he decided to let you sleep. He’s introducing Meril to her great-grandfather right now.” 

Glorithil gasped. “What do you mean? Is he -”

“He’s here,” Calerian confirmed, smiling at the stunned look on her sister’s face. “I know they weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow, but they made very good time, he said. Fewer difficulties on the road than they expected. They’re outside.”

The news brought Glorithil fully awake in an instant. She rose from her chair and hurried to the door, not even bothering to put on shoes. A small cluster of people stood in the packed dirt path that lead to Glorithil’s home, and in the middle of the group stood Elendil.

“Grandfather!” She ran to embrace him, laughing when he picked her up and spun her around as though she were still a child. He looked exactly the same as he had during his last visit five years ago: towering over everyone around him, undiminished in strength, his shoulder-length hair still dark and his grey eyes warm and kind.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” Elendil said. “You look tired. Has my great-granddaughter been keeping you awake?” He reached down to ruffle Meril’s hair, smiling down at the baby who lay gurgling happily in Rindisil’s arms.

Her husband was not of the line of Elros, but with his dark hair and grey eyes he certainly looked the part more than she did. Glorithil had her mother’s brown hair, brown eyes, and soft features, though she was not as short as Sirilien. Meril, it seemed, would take after her father (she had his dark hair) although with a child so young it was difficult to tell. 

Rindisil caught Glorithil’s eye and smiled at her. His handsome face had acquired a few scratches in addition to its usual pale scars, and he was still dressed in his traveling clothes, though he had removed his armor and weapons.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Sorry I didn’t move you out of the chair; you’re such a light sleeper, I didn’t want to risk waking you.”

“Much better, now that you’ve returned and our guests have arrived safely,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. Meril reached out for her mother, babbling excitedly, and Rindisil handed the baby to Glorithil. As the warm weight of her child settled into her arms, she felt for a moment that they were all completely safe. Terrible things seemed impossible with Meril smiling up at her. 

Elendil turned to his granddaughter and said, “Glorithil, may I speak to you inside? I have a rather important question for you.”

Surprised, Glorithil nodded. She handed Meril back to Rindisil, then accepted her grandfather’s arm and walked with him back to the house. They sat down across from each other in the simple wooden chairs, and Glorithil looked at him expectantly. 

Elendil cleared his throat. “Things are going well in the north,” he began, adjusting his long legs in a futile attempt to get more comfortable in a chair that was a little too small for him. “In fact, I am to be crowned king.” He smiled at the shocked look on Glorithil’s face. “It’s true; no longer will I be Lord Elendil of the Exiles. Instead the people would have me take the name Elendil, King of Arnor and Gondor. Part of the reason for my journey here is to consult with my sons on this matter.”

When she had considered it, Glorithil found that the idea of her grandfather as king did not seem strange to her at all. She wondered why they had not thought of it sooner; Elendil had held them together during the last few years by sheer force of will, and it was thanks to him that any of them had survived. She only had one lingering question. “Why did you want to tell me this in private, even before telling my father?” 

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Elendil said. “Do you still have the Crown of Silmarien?”

Glorithil froze. Last night’s dream (which had really been just a memory) came back to her in a vivid flash, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She had worn the crown during the rest of that terrible sea voyage, and she had worn it for most of the long trek inland as they searched for a place to settle. It had grown heavy and uncomfortable at times, but after a while the crown became so much a part of her that she had hardly noticed it was there. If her family wondered at it, they had said nothing. The moment they began to construct their first permanent settlement in Gondor, she had put the crown away and had not looked at it since. 

She realized that Elendil was watching her with concern, so she took a deep breath and said, “Yes. I kept it safe, just as you asked me to.”

“There will be a coronation. Ceremonies are important - you know how it is. They allow us to maintain some shred of connection to the past.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, then he shook his head. “My advisors suggested using the Crown of Silmarien to crown the new king, as it is one of the only treasures of Atalantë that remains. I told them I needed to ask your permission first. The crown is yours by right, and I know that it holds personal meaning for you.”

Glorithil stood up abruptly and walked to a large chest that stood in the corner of the room. She knelt down beside it and began to rifle through it, pushing aside layers of clothing until her fingers brushed the surface of the wooden box Elendur had made for her all those years ago. 

Returning to her seat, she handed the box to Elendil, who accepted it carefully. “Take it,” she said, and it came out a whisper as her throat constricted. “Someone ought to wear it. If it stays with me it will only sit in a box gathering dust, and be forgotten.”

Elendil nodded, and set the box aside. “Thank you, my generous granddaughter.” He took her hand and helped her to her feet, then kissed her forehead as he had when she was just a child. “Now let us rejoin the others. It isn’t every day that all our family gathers in the same place. When do you expect your uncle to arrive?”

Glorithil smiled, wiping a few stray tears from her eyes as she answered, “Tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Glorithil, Sirilien, Annawen, Calerian, Illisailë, Saríncë, Rindisil, and Meril are original characters. This story references some headcanon background events, which will eventually come up in We Fell. Sorry for the weird hints, and I hope everything still makes sense. 
> 
> 2\. Regarding ages, Numenoreans are officially recognized as adults at 25. The idea that the Faithful community started training underage young men to be soldiers in the desperation of the last few years is pure headcanon. Glorithil is about 31 in the framing scenes, which is very young to be a mother for a Numenorean of her lineage.
> 
> 3\. This story takes place about 15 years after they land in Middle-earth. I feel like the first few years would have been pretty tough with so few people and resources, and I think it would have taken them a while to find available land (maybe no one wanted Gondor since it was right next to Mordor?) and get settlements started. I honestly have no concept of how long it should have taken them to build Minas Anor and Minas Ithil, but it certainly didn’t happen overnight. I’ve decided that both fortress cities are under construction during the beginning and end of this story, and the group has split into two settlements but everyone’s still living in towns near the construction sites. Their numbers are still small, and living conditions for everyone are fairly simple, regardless of rank (the early years in Gondor and Arnor were tough and social boundaries had to be broken down quite a bit if everyone was going to survive). Osgiliath hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know how plausible this is, timeline-wise, but I’ll figure it out later.


End file.
